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“Damn,” Ophelia said, reading. “This wasn’t just murder, it was a punishment. What the hell happened?”
“I have some idea of what occurred but no idea of who he was,” Qui
“Why?” she asked. “Why would someone do this to another human?”
“I can tell you more later,” Qui
“Sure,” Ophelia said. “And you said there might be some DNA?”
Qui
“A black male, late twenties, measured at a little under six feet,” Ophelia said. “That’s it?”
Mary brought them two large sweet teas and blue plate specials. They’d forgotten to ask which sides, but the cook had just ladled on some green beans and fried eggplant. Not bad choices. They started to eat and didn’t talk. Qui
Ophelia had dark brown eyes and long brown hair with sideswept bangs she’d often push from her eyes as a nervous habit. When she was curious, skeptical, or worried, her mouth would turn into a thick red knot, holding what she had to say until she had chosen her words right. Most folks in Jericho considered her shy, or mousy, but she was more standoffish, slow to reveal herself in the typical Bundren way.
“This may not be the time,” Ophelia said, “but there’s nothing wrong if you were to stay with me in town a few days. I don’t give a good god damn what anyone says about me. And, hell, bring Hondo, too. You need some space of your own. And I’m closer to town.”
“People seem to be talking about me enough.”
“All bullshit.”
“Of course.”
“The ones that matter don’t talk that way.”
Qui
“How about a toothbrush at my place?” Ophelia said. “We start with a toothbrush . . .”
“Roger that,” Qui
• • •
Qui
The shack was fashioned together with plywood, Visqueen, and spit. Royce telling anyone who’d listen, from his children to his church, “I don’t ask for nothing I don’t need. I tend to my business. I take care of my own damn self.”
The dogs barked and bayed some more. Qui
The old man opened the little door with a broad grin, wearing Liberty overalls and a trucker cap from Tibbehah County Co-op, the main competition for Diane Tull’s Jericho Farm & Ranch. “Well, shit,” he said.
Royce always greeted Qui
“And you, too.”
Royce smiled. He almost never could remember Lillie’s name, always referring to her as that big-boned girl with grit.
“Good to see you, Mr. Royce,” Qui
“Y’all ain’t come to arrest me?”
“You do something wrong?” Lillie asked.
“Stick around a bit, darlin’,” Royce said, gri
He invited them into his shack, waving to an old sofa covered in stacked clothes and fixed in places with duct tape. A couple of the dogs followed them inside and Royce shooed them away, telling them they knew better and needed an ass-whippin’, they didn’t watch out. But the old man patted them on the heads as he led them out and closed the door. Boxes lined the walls, bundles of clothes that Qui
Qui
“Didn’t know it was back on the air till the other day,” Royce said. “Good to see something worth a shit on.”
Lillie took a seat on the couch, nodding at Qui
“How y’all been?” Royce said. “Your sister brought me a plate of supper the other night. I told her she didn’t need to be gone and doing that. You know, I don’t ask for nothin’ I don’t need. I tend to my business. And I take care of own damn self.”
“I think I may have heard that, sir,” Qui
Royce found an old kitchen chair toppled over under some clothes and brought it near the sofa. He smiled at Lillie and she smiled back. On television, Matt Dillon just killed three men and was walking down the center of the street in Dodge City. No one said jack shit.
“We need to talk to you about a murder that happened some time ago,” Lillie said. “I think you’re the last deputy around from the seventies.”
“Hal Strange is still kicking,” Royce said, “but he moved to Gulfport a few years ago.”
“I heard he died,” Lillie said.
“Nope,” Royce said. “Just got a Christmas card from his wife said they’d taken in some culture travels up in Gatlinburg, seeing some shows and all. Di
Lillie had brought in the file but didn’t open it. She just took her time, Qui
Royce, who’d been smiling, now quit. He rubbed his hands over his old white whiskers, his fla
Qui
“You ever catch the man who did it?” Lillie asked, the file placed between her knee and forearm that answered that very question.
“No, ma’am,” he said, “we sure didn’t. Sheriff Beckett took that shame to his grave. I don’t think he ever gave up trying to find that man. The father of the dead girl. What’s his name?”
“Stillwell?”
“Yes, Stillwell,” Royce said. “Sure made a mess of that fella . . . sloppy, crazy-ass drunk.”
Royce nodded with certainty, the mountains of clothes, garbage, and boxes of useless shit reminding Qui